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I moved from my estate in Waxahachie this past Saturday to a beautiful one-story, two-backyard, three-bedroom, four-unmarked grave home next to the beautiful University of North Texas.

—

I load all my things into the back of my father’s truck and go to my parents to say goodbye.

“Goodbye, moth3r,” I say, making sure that she knows I substituted the “e” for a “3” in order to sound more with it.

“Goodbye, s0n,” she says, making sure that I know she substituted the “o” for a “zero,” but since they both look alike I hardly notice.

My mother reaches out to hug me and I hug her back. I turn to my father.

“Goodbye F4th3r,” I say, but before I can explain myself, he punches me in the arm really hard.

“Don’t do that weirdo Denton shit to me. Now get on. I’m makin’ steaks and there’s not enough for three of us.”

“I love you too, dad,” I say, a single tear welling in my right eye because, after the “accident,” that’s all my mangled interior can produce.

I turn and get into my father’s truck. I’m using my father’s truck because my Civic is super shitty at carrying desks. The drive to Denton is smooth and uneventful–for the most part. About twenty minutes south of my destination, a yellow Volkswagen Bug swerves into my lane, almost hitting me. I honk in time to alert the driver, and throw an empty beer bottle in time to smash through the Bug’s windshield.

I reach my house in Denton. It’s lovely. Just as I imagined it. There’s a lawn, a front door, and a guy I’ve never met before sleeping in the hedges. He looks terrifically uncomfortable.

“Home,” I say.

My friend, Patrick, comes to help me move my stuff in. The first thing we take off the truck is my desk.

“This is the desk where I craft my masterpieces,” I say to Pat.

“What?” he says, struggling with the intense weight of the oak desk. I had stopped carrying my side because it was making me sweaty.

“I do all my writing on this desk.” I look in the direction of the house. “I’m going to go see what everyone else is doing.”

I enter the home. In front of me are my two female room mates, Alex and Courtney. Alex is weeping bitterly, Courtney is consoling her.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Chris told Alex that all girls are made of poison and that that’s the reason her cat died when she was a kid.”

I smell smoke and walk into the kitchen. Inside the kitchen is Chris Brown, the man I will be sharing a room with. He is tall and bearded and clearly bleeding from somewhere on his body.

“Trying–” he says, frantically moving from one burning station to the other, “–trying to make you a–welcome meal.” Chris coughs and I see a few drops of blood fall to the floor.

I’m going to have to mop that up later, I think to myself. Biohazard.

I look behind me nervously, hoping someone is there who can make sense of this chaos. Someone who can possibly hand Chris a napkin or something.

“DONE!” I hear Chris scream. His back is to me, but I can tell he setting up a plate for me.

“What is it?” I ask, my voice tremulous and wary.

“I made you some delicious move-in food!”

He extends the plate. I prepare my gag reflex; but when the food makes itself apparent, it’s beautiful. It’s the most beautiful plate of food I have ever seen.

“Chris,” I say, almost breathlessly, “This is magnificent. What is it called?”

“It’s called three shots of whiskey and a bologna sandwich on a plate.”

“Magic,” I say, and feast.

When I walk back out into the living room, Courtney, Alex, and Derek are all lounging on the couches.

“Derek, when did you get here?” I ask. Derek looks at me and shrugs his shoulders.

“I drank four Five Hour Energys this morning. My short term memory is pretty shot. For a while, I thought I just materialized here because one of you thought about me. Then Courtney showed me where I crashed my car into the mailbox out front.”

Derek immediately starts doing jumping jacks.

Courtney and Alex both complain of boredom.

“You could help me move some stuff,” I say, motioning out the front door.

“We’re bored Kyle,” Courtney says. “Not slaves.”

I don’t understand this remark, and make a note to mentally beat the shit out of Courtney in my quiet time later. Alex and Courtney continue to debate who is more bored.

“All right, well, me and Pat need to go pick up a few things. I’ll be back in an hour.”

An hour passes. I get some groceries ‘n shit. I take Pat home.

As I approach the door, things seem notably off. It’s as if a gossamer veil has been pulled over my vision, lending to everything a somewhat darkened and hazy appearance. I reach out to the door knob and hesitate for just a moment, then turn it and push through. Alex waits for me at the door.

“What do you want?!” She asks–her voice sharp and cutting, like a knife tied to a razor blade tied to the sound of a trumpet being sexually assaulted.

“I want to put my groceries away.” I look over her shoulder. “Where is everyone? Where is Derek?”

“I don’t know where Derek is,” she says, and begins to shut the door on me.

“Hey! I want to see Derek and you’re going to show him to me. He’s somewhere in this house and I need to see him.”

“Five dollars.”

“What?”

“Five dollars.” She holds out her tiny, she-devil hand. I put a five in it.

“This way.”

I set my groceries down and we walk down the darkened hallway. The sound of screaming permeates the air. A scurried frenzy of greed and risk. Alex knocks three times on a door at the end of the hall, in a distinct rhythm. The door opens slightly. In the opening, Chris Brown stands.

“He wants to see Derek.” Alex says.

Wordlessly, Chris steps back into the room, shutting the door. A moment later, it’s open again. Chris tells Alex that if I want to see Derek, I’ll have to pay five more dollars. I do so, begrudgingly.

When the door opens, the scene revealed is one which I have never seen before. Two men sit opposite each other, a small table between them. They are both wearing red headbands and white, button-up shirts. Their eyes are glassy and their faces like slate. A man in a suit stands over them. He loads a single round into the chamber of a six cylinder gun, spins the cylinder, and hands it to one of the men at the table.

As if being pulled by strings, the man lifts the gun to his head and pulls the trigger. A dry click. No shot. Everyone screams in a mix of celebration and anticipation. He slides the gun across the table.

“Where’s Derek?!” I ask Chris, yelling to be heard over the crowd. “You told me I could see him, now where is he?!” Chris motions with me to follow him. I’m taken into what used to be a foyer leading to a bathroom area. In it sits Courtney and a few small, leathery Asian gentlemen. They’re making arts and crafts.

“Here,” Chris says, handing her the ten dollars I had given. She looks at it, scoffs and hands it back.

“Not enough,” she says. I can’t believe this. I hand her ten more. She looks at Chris and nods.

Chris leads me back into the chaos. The first man who pulled the trigger is being dragged from the room, a trail of blood in his wake. My mouth gets dry and my hands very sweaty. A small bead of sweat slips into the crevice of my butt cheeks. My southside cleavage is dampening with anxiety.

Then, from the closet behind me, a door opens. Derek steps out. He is very pale. His hair is slicked back and his visage shares the same vacancy as the men at the table. He wears the same headband and button up shirt.

He walks to the table and sits down. I’m motioned to sit in front of him. A gun is placed between us. I pick it up and hand it back. The man puts it back on the table. I hand it back. The man puts it back on the table.

38 minutes later.

I’m forced to play.

“Derek, let’s go. You don’t need this. Let’s go home.”

“I am home,” Derek says.

“Fine,” I say. “You want this?” I raise the gun to my head an pull the trigger. Nothing. Derek takes the gun and does likewise. Another dry click.

“Carlo… Yes, I remember Carlo Rossi. I remember all that Carlo Rossi.” With that, Derek raises the gun to his head and fires. A mist of blood, bone, and brain matter sprays from the opposite side of his head.

“Derek!” I scream, getting down on my knees and cradling him like a man cradles the lifeless corpse of his buddy who just shot himself in the head in a game of Russian roulette. Just then Derek coughs and lightly touches the hole in his head.

“Well, shit,” he says. Years of abuse through chemicals and loud music have made Derek’s brain a useless husk–a stiff, lifeless mass that rattles in his head when he dances. How he lives on a day to day basis is beyond comprehension. Most likely, his mind has taken refuge in the one organ Derek uses least–his heart.

“Derek! You’re alive!” I cry. Courtney comes out of the bathroom, Alex enters the room, and Chris tells all the mysterious, smoky Asian men in attendance that if they don’t leave, he’s going to call the cops. Before long, the gun’s loaded again and things get messy.

Happy move-in day!

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Have you seen Inception? If you have, this blog is for you. If you haven’t, enjoy this picture then go somewhere else. You can stay if you want, there aren’t any spoilers, but still. I thought I’d give you the option.

—

We sit in a beaten down warehouse that has been retrofitted as a base of operations for Dom Cobb and his group of idea extractors. They steal ideas from the minds of others by infiltrating their dreams.

“Are you ready?” Dom asks me.

“Yes. Jesus, you’re handsome. You’re all so handsome.” I sigh and lean closely to Dom’s ear. He leans a bit toward me as well. “Do you think I’m at least more handsome than that gentleman with the long hair over there?”

“What gentleman?” Dom asks, confused.

“The gentleman at the desk. The tiny one. Probably a gymnast or tunnel-digger.”

“That’s a woman. Her name is Ariadne.”

“That’s a woman?”

“Yea,” Dom responds dryly. I look over at Ariadne, scrutinizing.

“Yea, I think you’re dreaming, Dom.”

“Dom, Kyle, are you guys ready?” Arthur, Dom’s second in command and second in handsome asks.

Before we go into the dreamworld, I am prompted by Dom on what kind of scene to create:

“Kyle, we need to infiltrate the dreams of that man resting over there. His name is Saito. He’s a business man–more than that–he’s the CEO of one of the most powerful companies in the world. We’ve been contracted to extract some highly classified information from his mind. We need to make him comfortable. Create an classic, oriental ballroom. Fill it with beautiful, high-class people from the most elite walks of life. I can’t know any of the specifics and you don’t need to know what information we need. Just do it. Good luck.”

We lean back into our seats and Arthur injects us with the serum that sends us to the deepest level of sleep. We enter Saito’s mind and I create the dream as per Dom’s instructions.

In dreams, you never see the beginning. You just arrive somewhere in the middle, and that’s exactly how me and Dom arrive in the oriental ballroom scene. There are three or so dozen people in the room with us, drinking and chatting in the soft voices, all at close-proximity to one another as the music floats overhead.

“An oriental ball room,” I respond meekly. Dom’s hair is slicked back, revealing the true magnitude of how huge his head is. It’s like an angry hot air balloon.

“This is a ball pit, Kyle. A ball pit. What kind of high class parties do you think employ a ball pit?!”

“The best kind?”

“No kind!” Dom yells, momentarily losing control. He exhales and regains his composure. “Okay, this isn’t lost. We can work with this. Can you change this to a ball room before Saito makes his entrance?”

I nod. I have never been in a ball room in my life. I decide to go ahead and tell Dom this. He looks terrified and furious. His head is enormous.

I do as I’m instructed. It actually isn’t half bad. After I’m done, the patrons all exchange confused, suspicious glances.

“They know the dream is being changed,” Dom said. “Be careful not to do anything too drastic. If they begin to sense that it isn’t Saito creating the dream, they’ll turn on you. It’s a defense mechanism.”

“Sounds good,” I say.

Moments later, Saito enters the room. He’s very Asian.

“Very Asian,” I whisper into Dom’s ear. I insert a ping pong table into the middle of the room. Dom turns to glare at me. I smile and wink at him, proud of my ingenuity.

I’m beginning to get very hungry in the dream. Saito and Dom are exchanging small talk. Dom is posing as a dream security professional. He’s so smart. While he’s doing that, to slake my hunger, I turn the hands of a woman next to me into cheese burgers. Before I can begin eating, she starts to scream. I realize how incredibly impractical my decision was and start to apologize. Frazzled, I can’t focus. The dream starts breaking down.

Saito realizes what we’re doing and draws a gun. Dom likewise draws a small pistol from the holster under his jacket and returns fire. We begin running through the ball room.

“Get us a way out of here!” Dom screams.

I create a large waterslide and jump down into it. It’s ruining my tuxedo. As I slide down, I turn to see if Dom is still behind me. He is. His head plummeting down the slide reminds me of the giant boulder scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark.

At the bottom of the slide, there’s a slight ramp. It throws us aloft for a moment, then we crash into the water, creating the “kick,” the sensation that jolts us awake.

I wake up with a gasp as does Dom beside me. Saito remains sedated on a bed nearby. Arthur is fiddling with some machine that sits between us, dispensing the chemicals that put us so quickly into such deep sleep.

The front door opens, revealing my date, but her figure is obscured by a screen door that remains closed. She pushes it open and comes down the walk. She’s lookin’ foxy. I look in my bike’s small, handle-bar-mounted rear view mirror and check my hair. It looks like absolute hell. Just as I left it. Good. Any semblance of order may diminish my rough and tumble, too-busy-thinking-to-adequately-bathe, rugged look. I want this girl to think that my silence tonight is due to my genius mind traipsing through a cognitive labyrinth, rather than me just wondering what letter of the alphabet her breasts most resemble (You ever seen an”x”? If you have, send pix plz. :P).

“Is this…” she looks at the driveway, and her car that sits parked there. “How are we getting to the restaurant?”

I look surprised at her confusion. “You’re going to trot along side me as I ride here.” I ring the bell again. She jumps a bit at the brash tones and smiles uncomfortably, as if to convince me with her smile that yes, I am kidding. I am. Her smile was right. “Just kidding. You’re going to stand on those awesome foot stands on the rear wheel. I bought them for you.” I give her my big doe eyes, then, remembering that does are females, and that this girl is clearly straight or bi-leaning-straight at least, I give her my buck eyes. All they say is that I want violence and intercourse. Hurriedly, she gets on the back of my bike. “Yippee-ki-yay, whore,” I say.

“What did you just call me?” she asks, but her voice is drowned out by my shrill laugh and incessant bell ringing.

We reach the restaurant, which was actually fairly close to her house, about forty-five minutes later. I had to pull over for something. I thought I saw a baseball in the grass that I wanted. It turned out it was a golf ball. I decided I wanted to see how far I could throw the golf ball. Then I decided that I wanted the golf ball to show my brother later how far I could throw a golf ball. It took us twenty minutes to find it.

The restaurant is a hole in the wall Chinese/Korean/Japanese/this-is-America-it’s-just-called-“Asian”-here restaurant.

“You like the food of the ninja?” I say, bowing slightly.

She laughs.

“Do you?” I ask. I begin demonstrating my kicking and chopping ability in the parking lot.

“I suppose,” she says.

“Good,” I respond, halting my seminar on ass-demolition and stepping closer. “Because I wouldn’t want to have to feed you a,” I do a few chops close to her face, “knuckle sandwich. Those are expensive.”

“Yea. You pay with those in teeth,” I say, then swiftly turn my body and begin walking to the door.

The service at the restaurant is terrible. I order a bottle of Shiner and, despite shaking the bottle at the waitress numerous times and raising my eyebrows as if to say “Helloooo,” she still doesn’t give me a refill.

“Then this beer better be free,” I say, casually tossing the bottle over my shoulder.

After dinner, we go to a local watering hole to get a few drinks. The throbbing music pushes us close to one another, my hand resting comfortably at the small of her back. I find a welcome home, speaking softly at her ear, the smell of her perfume and her hair filling me with an excitement and a zest that runs thick through my nose and, like a charge, through my heart and into my gut, warming it.

“Girl I’m on a date with?” I say into her blessed hearing orifice.

“Yes?” she looks up at me expectantly, her mouth slightly open.

“You want to do some Irish car bombs?”

The radiance vanishes from her face. “No, I don’t,” she responds.

“That’s cool,” I say. I leave for eight minutes to do a few car bombs by myself.

My strategy at a bar-date is to get so sloshed that the only my date can tolerate me is to get equally or more sloshed than me. After that, she’ll let me hold her hand no prob. No probz.

Pictured: A cumulative 28% blood:alcohol level.

We walk back to my bike, which, in lieu of a suitable bike rack, I have tied to a vagrant.

“Thank you, vagrant,” I say. “Here is the dollar I promised you.” I hand him a napkin.

Our ride home is jaunty and somewhat illegal. I try to stay off the main roads. After a time, we decide to just walk the bike (safety first) and walk home. Our conversation is light and enjoyable and mostly incoherent.

“Do you like-uh muh bahk?” I ask her at one point.

“I think I’m gnna throw up,” she mutters in response. I smile at her lovingly, my gaze warm with affection. She throws up on my bike.

That is when I decide we will not be making out tonight.

We reach her house and I walk her to her front door. The light above the door casts playful shadows across her face that almost covers up the bits of lo mein stuck to her chin.

“I had a rilly gud time,” she says.

“Me too,” I say.

“Good night.” She tries to kiss me, but I duck away by acting like there’s a terrible sore on her face–to save her feelings.

Looking a bit miffed, she opens up the screen door and unlocks the front door. I step down from the entry way and allow my bike to fall into the dewy grass of her front lawn.

“What’re you doing? Are you leaving your bike here?” she asks, turning the keys in her front door and opening it.

“Nope. Sleepy. I think I’m going to pop a squat right here. Sleep in the yard.”

And so I did.

And it was good.

I think I got bit by a dog in the night.

The End.

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As a compliment to my previous post, I’d like to dive into my actual experience in the gay bar bathroom. A lot of the stuff on this site is embellished or exaggerated accounts of events in my real life; I actually went to a gay bar last weekend and actually did go to the bathroom and actually did see a guy adjusting his boner in the mirror.

That being said, the opinions I’m about to vomit are from the real me. The events and persons depicted are equally as valid.

—

I was sitting in a small metal seat, which I was sharing with a friend. On stage was a female entertainer who used to be just a male regular person. She was dressed in a form-fitting sequin gown. They called her Asia. I’m not sure why–she was black–but who knows. Maybe she was good at karate or something.

She was lip syncing to an old Motown hit, dancing slowly and seductively. The name of that eludes me at the moment. About a minute and a half into her song, I had to use the restroom. The transexual entertainer and my desire to go to a restroom are completely unrelated.

I pass through the crowd that has formed around the stage. It’s full of young men and old men. There are several women in attendance as well. I reach the restroom and pass through the door. This is where my study begins.

Peeking

Straight Rule: No peeking.

Gay Bar Rule: Yea, okay, check out my junk.

A few seconds after I stepped up to the urinal, a man stepped next to me (Rule on urinal selection to come later) and began urinating. I immediately realized that to this guy, me standing here was the equivalent of me standing directly next to an attractive woman while she pees.

Restrooms are, in most establishments, set up to keep the sexes separate. We are separated under the notion that it’s improper for me to see my girlfriend pee or wash her hands or sit down and act like she’s going to poop, only to stand up a moment later, laughing loudly at the notion of a woman defecating. The sexes are also separated due to fear of lewd or lascivious behavior.

In the gay bar, though, the setup is the opposite. All the patrons that want to bang eachother are in the same room and their genitals are all completely exposed. The guy next to me clearly looked over the barrier and looked at my junk. I didn’t get mad at him; it’d be unfair to do so, I think. This is a gay bar. This is protocol here. Right?

Urinal Selection

Straight Rule: Every man must, when possible, leave at least one urinal between himself and the man next to him.

Gay Bar Rule: Cozy on up, you kooky stranger.

This connects directly to the previous post. Isn’t that nice? There’s gotta be a joke somewhere about this section not leaving a urinal between itself and the previous section, but I don’t have to patience to figure it out (Looks like I just did.).

In a straight bathroom, you leave a urinal between yourself and the man next to you. If urinals 1, 3, and 5 are taken, you use a stall. No one uses the little kid urinal. That’s not even an option. Don’t even think about it. That’s for kids, and you don’t want your bare wiener where kids are, do you? Do you?

No. You don’t.

The guy who peeked at me sea-horse [Editor’s Note: What?] stood directly next to me. This took me aback for a moment, as there was plenty of room for him to pee elsewhere. Then, realization, I was in a gay bar. Gay dudes don’t worry about looking gay. It’s a little depressing to think about all the things straight men do to avoid being thought of as gay. The clothes we wear, music we listen to, movies and television shows we watch, the butt holes we penetrate–all these things are criteria for our relative gayness to be judged.

Giving Yourself a Fluffer

Straight Bar Rule: Usually just called “masturbating.”

Gay Bar Rule: Get that engine ready, speed demon.

Like I mentioned earlier, as I was walking out of the restroom, a man stood in the mirror and adjusted his pants to more compliment his genitals–which were very much ready for love.

In the bar I was at, people just walked by the guy. Somebody may have even offered a compliment or two. I would have told him “Your wiener sure is a funny shape. Might want to put that thing away until your partner’s too emotionally obligated to turn it down. Yah mean?” but I’m a nice guy. And I’m afraid of large, clearly-aroused African American men in track pants.

In a straight bathroom, people would just ask you to do it in a stall.

—

As I close the book on my first gay bathroom experience, I look back fondly. Fondle-ee. Oh, one more thing. People called me “baby” a lot, but that was everywhere in the gay club, so I didn’t include it here. Also, I got my ass tapped as I left. I think he was making sure I had my wallet still. Gay people are helpful.

And so it passes that an arrangement is made. A reservation with the homosexual community has been forged. My gayness, ever covert, shall be made overt by the shaking of my ass in a completely rainbow-safe environment.

The group assembled is comprised of tall bearded man named Chris, a tiny brown woman named Arianna, a tall white woman named Courtney, and a tall gentleman referred to as Derek by his contemporaries. I’m also there.

We all pile into Chris’s car which, for the evening, I’ve likened to a kind of spacecraft. A spacecraft that is transporting us to a strange, new world where the once persecuted is embraced and those once thought to be “eccentric” are now “full on gay.” I call his car the SeX-Wing.

The ride to the club is long, but goes by quickly. It goes by quickl. Quickl. Quickl. [Editor’s Note: Why don’t you just type the ‘y’s in?] [Kyle’s Note: Because for this next part, one needn’t wonder y about anything.] [Editor’s Note: Lord.]

Arrival. Five young, intrepid adventurers dashing out into the night. Things gon’ get gay.

The club is loud and colorful. Above the dance floor hangs a large, intricate rack of lights that intermittently raises and lowers itself. In the flickering darkness, it resembles looming, mechanical, light-spider, stalking its prey.

“Look at that thing! It looks like a robotic spider!” I yell to Arianna over the music. Two gentleman walk by and say something to me about my body. I cross my arms and button up my shirt.

“What did you say?” Arianna asks. I turn quickly from her gaze and wipe my eyes.

“Nothing,” I eek out. Nothing.

There’s a long, metal staircase that leads to a second-level. At that second level, there is another bar and a stage where performers dance around and lip-sync to a bunch of songs that everybody hates but can’t stop listening to.

At one point in the show, my bladder tells me “Time go wee wee now!” I tell my bladder to talk like an adult and then get up to use the restroom. Inside the restroom, a gentleman is adjusting his boner. I giggle and run out, unzipped, my genitals spraying wildly as my cherubic face laughs maniacally.

A man with enormous muscles and a funny hair cut approaches Chris and tells him we have to go.

I tell that man that we have a right to be there.

He says that I in fact do not.

I stand on the stage and scream “My name is Kyle Irion, and I am here to recruit you!” –drawing a line from the film MILK in order to draw support from the crowd. They just seem sort of put off because I haven’t put my wiener away yet and I’m still peeing somehow.

“Kyle, let’s go. It’s time to go,” Chris says.

“All right,” I say, zipping up.

“I’m glad we’re leaving,” Derek says. “This place is a total sausage fest.”

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I had a good Fourth. I’d say it was strong. Quite, quite strong. You wanna hear about it? Of course you do.

—

Close up of my eye. It is closed. Suddenly, it opens.

I’m in my underwear, wrapped like a man-burrito in a comforter on my friend Sam’s couch. I am in Denton, Texas–roughly one hour from my home in Waxahachie. I will need to reach Waxahachie for festivities. Quietly, I get off the couch, allowing the comforter to fall to my feet. I pause for a minute, imagining how sexy that might have looked. It’s only a “might have” because my hair looks like an animal you see sleeping in the middle of the highway with its insides on the outside [Editor’s Note: That’s a bit graphic. Think you could tone it down?] [Kyle’s Note: Yea, how about this.] It’s only a “might have” because my hair looks like an Ewok that flew face first into a wood chipper. [Editor’s Note: Infinitely worse.]

I got home and ate a delightful brunch with my family. Soon thereafter, my parents tell me that they’re going to go to Barnes & Noble and buy some books. I roll my eyes at their extravagance (I have to write my own books.). As they’re walking out the door, I hear them bicker a bit, softly. My mother keeps prodding my father back into the house. He looks to me wearily and then reaches into his wallet, removing a few bills.

“Would you like to go buy the fireworks?” He swallows hard and holds the bills out to me. I reach for them. For a moment, my father resists relinquishing the money to me–but I get it. I get the money. “C–careful, son.”

The fireworks store is a retrofitted warehouse, the interior walls lined with shelves of fireworks. There is an island in the middle of the store where the more expensive fireworks are kept. When I walk in, I look to the largest cannon in my field of vision, raise my hand, and, forming my fingers into a gun, make an audible clicking noise. A few of the staff make note of me. I leisurely flip a Zippo lighter on and off as I pass.

The shelves are set away from the patrons via a waist-high chain link fence. Those seeking the explosive-art are required to ask the staff to get the fireworks they want. In another attempt to frighten the workers, I continually refer to the fireworks as “materials.” At one point, I ask an older employee if the M-80’s he’s selling are “combat ready.” When he asks for clarification, I simply touch the tip of my nose and then point to him.

I bought a variety of exploding things.

When I return home with my combustible bounty, there is much celebration–mainly from the cats. Mainly the cats all celebrate. They all celebrate in silence with their glassy, unflinching eyes–with their bodies that sit motionless except for the rising and falling of their abdomens–the exchange of godless breath.

“Hey kee-kees!” I scream, dropping the fireworks in a heap and scurrying about from cat to cat. They are bounding fearfully before me. I spend the next forty-five minutes playing 52-Cat Pickup, wherein I try to see how many cats I can hold in my arms at once.

By the time I’m done getting my stitches, it’s almost ten o’clock. It’s time to rock. It’s time to get America all over the sky’s ass.

“Sky!” I scream, slamming the door behind me, stepping with exaggerated grandiosity onto the back porch, making small explosion sounds with every succeeding step. “Sky! You’ve been sitting up there, high and mighty, for far too long! We’re all sick of you looking down on us! Looking down on us with your stars and your clouds and your sneak preview of God’s anus.” I’m a bit startled to find my father sitting in a lawn chair by the pool.

“God’s anus?” He asks, his voice tinged in as much confusion as disgust.

“Yea,” I reply. “The sun.”

My father gathers his drink from the small table at his side and walks into the house. Through the glass on the door, I see the soundless images of my mother and father speaking. My father seems to be angry. My mother seems to be apologizing for something or someone. I sigh heavily and hang my head. I know what they’re talking about.

Alone now except for the old family dog resting at my feet, I look up to the sky. In the expanse around me, far away and everywhere, there is the jubilant and distant sound of children laughing. I smile at the sound, but after a moment, the smile fades a bit as I find myself envying them. I reach down and gently stroke the old dog’s head, his coat more faded now, more matted. I turn to go inside, but as I do, the door swings open. It is my father. In his arms he holds the fireworks I bought and some more that he must have purchased himself.

“Let’s show that sky what’s what,” he says, the whiteness of his grin visible even in the evening dark.